Chapter Three
Cara
It’s him.
How can it be him?
My body jerks to a sudden stop, my eyes widening in disbelief.
I never planned to see him again. Never thought he would come strolling back into my life.
Not once did I dare to picture him standing in my coffee shop.
Emotions I’ve long buried for him swirl under the surface of my skin, my arms breaking out in goosebumps at seeing Smith standing at the end of the hallway.
Memories of the past wound me just as deeply now as they did all those years ago when I left.
I guess some wounds never heal.
Time slows as Smith and I stare at each other. To his credit, he looks just as shocked as I do, maybe more so. And damn him, he looks even better than the last time I saw him.
Smith has filled out, no longer the tall skinny twenty-two-year-old he was.
He’s still tall, but his figure is less lean and more defined.
The white button-down and black jeans he’s wearing fit him perfectly, accentuating his physic.
But it’s those blue eyes, the ones I see in my dreams, that haunt me the most as we stare at each other.
“There she is.” Sammie cheers, her footsteps bouncy as she steps between us, snapping me out of my haze.
“Cara, this is Smith, the journalist from The Daily Click.” She gestures to the man I used to know who has the decency to look embarrassed.
“Smith, this is Cara, owner of Tall, Dark, and Coffee, who will show you around this week.”
Smith swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Cara.” He tilts his head toward me. It’s a good thing he didn’t offer his hand because I don’t know if I would’ve been able to take it.
Sammie glances between the two of us, her gaze questioning as she locks eyes with me. Cool disdain rolls off me in waves, my jaw set firm, willing no emotion into my features.
I’ve cried too much over this man already.
Six years isn’t long enough.
“Okay, well…” Sammie trails off, her head bouncing like a tennis ball between us. “Cara, I’ll call you later?” She gives me a pointed look and I nod, knowing she won’t take no for an answer.
We stand awkwardly, feet apart, neither one of us saying a word. Customers shuffle in, the bell dinging in the background, the click of the register, and the low hum of customers filling the space between us.
Smith shuffles on his feet, his arm reaching between us like a peace offering. “Cara, I had no idea…” He runs his hand through the inky dark hair, a lone piece brushing against his forehead. “I’m happy to see you.”
“Don't,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice low so customers won’t overhear.
The last thing I need is for a rumor to spread through town.
Deep calming breaths fill my chest as I try to regain my slipping composure.
I don’t think I can do this. I can’t be this close to him.
My mind flickers through who would be able to work with him while I hole myself in my office for several days until he leaves town.
Smith blinks his blue eyes at me, waiting for me to speak. He always had a way of knowing exactly how I was feeling at any given moment, and it seems that that’s another thing time failed to lessen.
The list I was attempting to compile drifts from my mind like leaves in the fall breeze.
I let out a slow exhale, steeling my spine for what I’m going to have to do.
“This isn’t going to be some walk down memory lane,” I say firmly to both myself and to him.
“No talking about the past or bringing up old baggage. I promised Sammie I’d show you around town, and believe me, if I hadn’t already made all sorts of arrangements, I’d let you fend for yourself. ”
A whole helluva lot of me wants to shut the door behind him and never open it again.
Go back to my life before he showed up in my town.
Try to forget about him and all the feelings that resurface when I look at him.
But it’s time to push my own personal feelings to the side and focus on Rose Prairie.
“Cara,” he sighs my name, flashbacks of that same sound from a different time flicker through my mind.
Those ridiculous blue eyes beckon me closer, to close the gap between us like I long to do, but I hold my ground, willing my feet to stay planted.
He holds up his hands in surrender before sliding them into his pockets.
“Alright. Professional interactions only.”
“Good.” My arms cross under my chest, the embroidery of the logo on my apron digging into my forearms. “Meet me here tomorrow morning at nine,” I instruct before turning on my heel and going back to my office.
***
Hot Plates is busy for a Monday night. The race car-themed restaurant offers made-to-order meals that taste homemade but better.
Black and white tiled floors are accented by the bright red tables and chairs that are all full of customers.
It’s one of the few nice-ish places to eat in town—not that there are many options.
Looking around the restaurant, I see that June isn’t here yet, which is normal. She works at Honey’s Diner as a waitress and our dinners together help keep us sane in this town. She was the first friend I ever made in Rose Prairie and she’s been by my side ever since.
It doesn’t take long for the blonde beauty to walk in wearing her honey gold 60s-inspired uniform. I love her, but the girl is so unaware that she turns heads wherever she goes.
“So sorry I’m late. There was a table of college kids who wouldn’t stop complaining about their cafeteria food,” she huffs out in one breath as she plops in the seat across from me. “They tipped well though, so dinner’s on me.”
“Absolutely not,” I snort. This is an ongoing argument we have every damn week. “It’s my week to pay. You paid last week. I’m not going to let you.” She tightens her ponytail and gives in with a giggle.
We place our orders, and I fill her in on my mess of a day. “You’ll never guess who showed up in town today. Think blast from my past.” The spinach and artichoke dip breaks my chip and I focus on digging out the fragment from underneath all the melted cheese.
Ice clinks in her glass as she hums to herself. “A blast from your past…” she trails off, her eyes going distant as she thinks. “Can you give me something else to go off of?”
Giving up on my search, I reach for another chip, biting into it with a satisfying crunch. “Ex,” I mumble through a full mouth.
Her exclamatory gasp draws looks from around the restaurant. “Shut the front door! Smith?”
The familiar waitress, I think her name is Marianne, sets our plates in front of us, as she issues a warning about the hot plates.
I thank her with a smile, recognizing her from my coffee shop.
I think she bought a book yesterday now that I think about it.
Would it be too weird to ask if she likes it?
Maybe she’s interested in joining our book club…
“The very one,” I reply with a sigh as the waitress moves on to her next table.
June was there for the fallout of my relationship with Smith all those years ago when I fled the city, my heart broken.
An echo of pain ripples through my chest, the wound still fresh after all this time.
I take a bite of my shrimp taco, the perfect combination of honey and spice mingling on my tongue.
“And, you remember the journalist Sammie begged me to show around this week?” June’s blue eyes widen as she nods her head, busy chewing on her steak. “Well, Smith is that journalist.”
She takes her time mulling over the information, her brows furrowing as she chews.
June sets her utensils down as she leans in beckoning me closer with a wave of her hand.
“Should we cut his balls off?” she whispers deadpan, her serious question throwing me off.
My composure breaks with a loud snort as I desperately suck in air as my body wracks with laughter.
June stares at me for a beat, a bewildered expression on her face before she chuckles with me.
“I was being serious,” she explains when I finally manage to calm down.
“I really think we should cut his balls off.”
“I know you did. That’s why it was so funny.” June is my ride-or-die, and even though I’ve never told anyone what happened with Smith and me, she’s willing to do anything if I ask.
“So wait, did you know it was going to be him when she asked you?”
I share my tumultuous story about seeing my ex-boyfriend walk into my coffee shop as we eat, occasionally stopping for June to ask questions. When I explain all the arrangements I made this week for the journalist, she stops me.
“Hold up. Let’s think this through for a minute. Why don’t you throw in some extra activities,” she adds with air quotes. “You know, to get him off your back?”
My eyes narrow. “What are you thinking over there, June?”
She leans back against the bright red metal of her chair, sipping through her straw. “I don’t know. Maybe throw in something unpleasant.”
A very specific person comes to mind and excitement bubbles in my chest.
I know exactly what to do.